Son of a Gun by Justin St. Germain

Author:Justin St. Germain [Germain, Justin St.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-53874-1
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2013-08-13T04:00:00+00:00

In my car, on our way to the Foothills for Brian’s presentation, he and Doug argue about where to eat. Doug wants to go to a bar and grill near the university; Brian doesn’t think we have time.

“They have great burgers,” Doug says from the backseat. “I could go for a burger.” Brian sits next to me, on the passenger side, fiddling with the radio.

“We can’t get a burger in twenty minutes,” Brian says.

“We can tell them to be quick.”

“It’s not physically possible. You can’t order and cook and eat a hamburger in twenty minutes.”

“We’ve got forty minutes.” In the rearview mirror, Doug checks his watch. “Forty-five.”

“We still have to go to Safeway for snacks.”

They argue for a while about the snacks. Doug says there are still some veggies and trail mix left over from last night’s presentation. Brian says they should get a bottle of wine; he seems to be anticipating a big turnout. Doug says we can’t bring wine, because the owner of the house—whom they never mention by name—is in AA. Brian returns to the issue of dinner. Neither of them is willing to budge. Doug has drawn his line in the sand: he wants a hamburger. I decide that I’m with Doug, and will vote for hamburgers if they ask for my opinion, but they don’t. Instead, they reach a compromise: we’ll get hamburgers, but at McDonald’s, which will be faster. They try to tell me how to get to the nearest McDonald’s, and begin to argue over that.

“I lived here for seven years,” I say. “I know how to get to McDonald’s.”

The car goes silent as we pass the university, the glowing red letters on the football stadium, the long grassy mall glistening in the rain. The wipers thump across the windshield. Brian eyes the bungalows on his side of the street as if he’s wondering what they’re worth.

At a red light, without looking at me, he asks what I do these days. “For money, I mean.”

His question catches me off guard. I tell the truth, despite myself. “I’m trying to be a writer.” It’s something I never say, and just as I begin to wonder why I’m being honest, if I expect him to be proud of me, if I want him to, he says:

“Boston Market.”

“What?” I look over at him. He’s staring out the window at a Boston Market on the corner.

“Maybe that would be good. Look at that line.” He taps the window with his finger. “They must be doing something right.”

The light turns green. “If you want to go there, tell me now,” I say.

We stick with McDonald’s. Brian buys value meals for all of us with a credit card. As we eat, he talks about his life after he and Mom broke up, but I don’t really listen. After dinner, I follow his directions west down River Road, past strip malls full of art galleries and snowbird restaurants. We turn north on a dark street that leads into the desert. Half a mile later, the city lights behind us drop under the crest of a hill and disappear.

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